Kiss Her Or Keep Her: 30Kisses
by Child of a Pineapple
Summary: Pushing Daisies : Ned.Chuck. Entry 15: Although bothers isn’t really the right word. It doesn’t do the feeling justice, not at all.
1. Quaint

_Hello…alright, so this fic is actually for the 30kisses community on __LiveJournal__, but I'm posting it over here, too. This whole series (because that's what this is, a series of drabbles) is an adventure for me, because I'm trying a bunch of new things. For one, I've never really written romance before…so we'll see how this turns out. Anyway, like I said, this is a series of drabbles for ABC's "Pushing Daisies." The pairing is Ned/Chuck, because they make me want to laugh and cry at the same time. _

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**The drabbles**__** are rated individually, but I won't go higher than PG-13 (T). For the most part, they'**__**ll be pretty harmless. Also, NOTE, these are drabbles. They're supposed to be short.**_

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_Theme __#1 – look__ over here_

_Quaint_

"Ned?"

Night had long since stolen over the pair of them – if he squints, Ned can just make out her form in the darkness. She's watching him from her bed, so far across the wide expanse of the room. _Dessert spoons, _he reminds himself, but the thought isn't nearly as comforting as he'd hoped or thought it might be.

"What's the matter?" he asks. Not even he understands this compulsion to assume that someone (most likely himself) has erred in some way, but the words are out there and he can't take them back.

"Nothing," Chuck murmurs. She's silent long enough that Ned wonders if she's drifted back into slumber, but then she speak again. "It's just…"

Ned finds himself sitting up, wondering in earnest now what could possibly be wrong, and wishing those lips were close enough to taste, and wishing even harder that his touch wouldn't take back the one thing he'd given her.

"What is it?" Ned asks, leaning forward as his feet find the ground.

Chuck opens and closes her mouth several times before the query finally slides off her tongue.

"Why pies?"

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_Please, please, please review. I'd really appreciate the feedback…and I'm not going to bother posting on here if nobody reads it. I feel bad saying that, but you all know what it's like to look at the hit counter and see that 100 people have clicked on your story, but only two took the time to comment._

_#2 is already finished, and will be up tomorrow. Until then,_

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	2. Lipstick Kisses

_Thank you to all who reviewed. This one's pretty short, so I'm posting part three today as well. Enjoy!_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**Rated PG.**_

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#2 – news; letter

_Lipstick Kisses_

It's the little things that make it maybe not so bad. Things like the scent of her perfume lingering in the apartment, or notes signed with lipstick kisses.

He'd never thought that something could be so sweet and yet oh so very bitter. Because it's easy enough to distract himself with the eccentricities and plastic-wrapped quirks of their romance, but he can never really forget.

So he finds joy where he can, in the little moments, like a smile that chases the clouds away, or notes signed with lipstick kisses.

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_Stick around for chapter three._

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	3. Spark

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**Rated PG.**_

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#3 – jolt!

_Spark_

"I have a question," Chuck declares, setting the rolling pin aside. She rests her elbows on the counter and her chin in her palms and waits for a response.

Ned, on the other hand, continues his work, but a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "You always have questions," he points out, still grinning. He casually glances in Chuck's direction, and bites back a laugh – a light dusting of flour coats her hair, and a white smudge adorns her nose. He doesn't realize that his hands have stopped their methodical motion – he's overwhelmed with the urge to reach for the plastic wrap.

"What does it feel like?"

"What does what feel like?"

"When you bring someone back," she clarifies. "I mean, is it like a little spark? Do you just feel all the life rush back into them?"

Ned isn't sure how to answer. Chuck's eyebrows are arched and her lips are pressed together as she waits for a response.

"I don't really know," he says finally. "I've never actually thought about it." His hands are moving again, more to distract himself from this conversation than anything else. He can see where it's going, and—

"What about when you touch them again?"

--and he really, really doesn't want to go _there_.

"It doesn't feel like anything," he says firmly, because he doesn't want to tell her the truth. He doesn't want her to understand the sensation of life fleeing a body that had just gotten used to breathing again. And he definitely doesn't want to think about what it would have been like to press his lips against hers and feel her vibrant presence fade away.

"Oh." She frowns, almost like she doesn't quite believe him. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing," he confirms, so vehemently that he nearly believes it himself.

"I see." She picks up the rolling pin again, returning to her task.

Ned watches her for a moment longer before adding, "You have…" He trails off, one hand indicating his face.

Chuck raises a finger and brushes the tip against her nose, letting out a surprise laugh when it comes away white.

"I must look ridiculous," she says, wiping the flour away with a sheepish grin.

"Never," Ned murmurs, and that much is true.

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_Please review!_

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	4. Holy

_Alright, I've got entries 4, 5, and 6 today. I'm not really sure how I feel about these, but I'd just like to get them posted so I can quit thinking about them._

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**Rated PG.**_

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#4 – our distance and that person

_Holy_

They were at it again, face-munching through a sheet of plastic wrap back in the kitchen.

Olive's ready to scream and shout and tear her hair and stamp her feet. She doesn't though, because she's better than that. Really, she is. But she's frustrated and crazy with some unnamed emotion (she's certain it's love).

Her blood's steaming and boiling as Ned smiles at that girl, the one that is most definitely not her. Olive's done everything (short of taking her clothes off) and Ned's never even batted an eye, let alone looked at her like _that._

She supposes that if she were a good person she'd be happy because Ned is happy.

But then again, she never claimed to be a saint.


	5. Guessing Game

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**Rated PG.**_

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#5 – "ano sa" ("hey, you know…")

_Guess_

Chuck practically bounces into the kitchen that morning – her hair's still slightly askew, as if she left in a hurry. "Guess what?" she exclaims breathlessly, leaning into the counter.

Ned's putting the finishing touches on a Summer Peach pie, and so he glances at her briefly. He can't quite help the grin that steals across his features at the sight of Chuck, a blush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.

"What?" he asks, his gaze returning to his work.

A moment later he feels that now-familiar sensation of plastic wrap against flesh, and flesh against plastic wrap as Chuck (sort of) plants a kiss on his lips. It only lasts for a minute, but it's plenty of time for both to pretend that there isn't anything between them at all. The film brushes his face and he imagines he can feel her breath on his skin.

"What were you going to tell me?" he wonders a moment later.

She smiles against his lips. "I don't remember."


	6. Close

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc. **__**Rated PG.**_

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#6 – the space between dream and reality

Too close.She'd gotten too close and now…

…dead eyes and cool skin and those pale, pale lips that can never brush his, never ever ever, and she's _gone_.And it's his fault, all his fault and—

"Ned?"

Her voice slices through the dull fog that's clogging his mind and for a moment he still sees her like _that_, cold and lifeless.

But then the image is gone, fading away as sleep abandons him.He can see her clearly now, kneeling there by his bed, biting her lip and frowning.

"I think you were having a nightmare," she whispers.It's silly, he thinks, for Chuck to keep her voice down, because they're both very much awake.Or at least he thinks he is…

She's watching him pointedly, and Ned realizes that Chuck would probably like a response.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, but his voice doesn't sound right, not even to his own ears.

Apparently Chuck doesn't think so either, because she's frowning still, and fidgeting in her spot as she inches closer._Too close…_

"You look sick," she observes, her eyes scanning over him worriedly. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," he says again, more fervently this time.But even as he speaks he knows it's a lie, because he really does feel awful.There's a pounding in his skull and an ache in his bones, accompanied by a searing heat that permeates his entire body.

Chuck shakes her head and then she's gone (_his fault, all his fault_).She comes back, though, and now she's donned rubber gloves and has a thermometer clutched in her grasp. It's in Ned's mouth before he has the chance to protest, but then again, he isn't sure he wants to.

"You have a fever," she proclaims a few moments later, alternating her gaze between the instrument and his face.A deep frown runs rampant across her features as she rests a gloved hand on his brow.

"I'm fine," he insists, but she doesn't even pretend to believe him this time. She leaves once more, reappearing a moment laterwith a glass of water and medicine that Ned doesn't want to take, but does anyway.It's worth it in the end, because Chuck at least seems relieved, rocking back on her heels as she watches him.

"Sleep," she soothes, taking one of his hands in her own. "I'll be right here."He considers protesting, but only for a minute, because the lull of unconsciousness is just too inviting, and sleep claims him once more.

This time, he dreams of her kisses.

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_Please review!_

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	7. Remember

_Happy tofurkey day! I was making pies for tonight, and then I was like...oh, yeah, I finished those drabbles the other day, didn't I? These have been posted over on LJ for a little while, but I hadn't gotten around to putting them up here, I guess. So anyway, here are entries 7, 8, 9 and 10. I hope you enjoy them, and feedback would be delectable._

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pushing Daisies, or any of the characters, settings, etc.**

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_#7 – __superstar_

_Remember_

In the eyes of the world, Charlotte Charles would only be remembered as the lonely tourist – the hapless victim of wanton violence. She'd never smile again, she'd never laugh, she'd never love.

But here she was anyway, smiling and laughing and loving. And it didn't matter how she was remembered, because as long as she could press her lips to his (plastic barriers aside) she was wholly concerned with the here and now.


	8. Kindred

_#8 – our own world_

_Kindred_

Chuck never thought she'd identify so closely with a dog.

Really, though, she thinks she's found a kindred spirit in Digby, because they have one over-arching commonality – the inability to touch the one person they most care about.

And she's impressed that Digby's carried on this way for so long because it _hurt__s_keeping her hands back when she yearns to reach out. Honestly, there've been days when she's fought the urge to gently brush his face, or press a hasty kiss to his cheek. It's not that she wants to die, but sometimes it just seems so surreal that she almost doesn't believe it.

But if Digby's lasted this long, then Chuck's sure she can endure, too. Because the feeling that wells up in her chest when he smiles that makes it all okay.


	9. Recipe

_#9 – __dash_

_Recipe_

He likes to consider things in terms of recipes. There was something calming about their methodic nature – the sweet harmony that came with the perfect balance of ingredients. He marveled at the way meaningless lumps of sugar and flour and fruit could blend together to something as simplistically majestic as a pie.

He tried putting their relationship into such terms once – a tablespoon of caution, a dash of creativity, four cups of restraint.

It all went very well until Hurricane Chuck swooped in with her plastic-wrapped kisses, scattering the pages and throwing order to wind. After that he didn't care about the ingredients so much, because who eats the pie for flour, anyway?


	10. Subterfuge

_#10 -- #10_

_Subterfuge_

They tread carefully, peering around dim corners and slipping past windows, breath bated and all the hairs on their necks prickling up in anticipation. Door #10 looms at the end of the hall, and they rush the last few steps, feeling exposed as they step into the soft halo of light cast by a bulb overhead. She swiftly picks the lock, and he winces as the mechanic click reverberates back down the hallway.

But then they're inside, and the door's shut behind them and they can breathe again. Ned fumbles for a light-switch, and suddenly a yellow glow fills the tiny apartment.

"Isn't this exhilarating?" Chuck breathes, a grin flitting across her features. She glances at the room, taking in their surroundings.

"It's breaking and entering," he points out. Conscious of the cramped quarters, Ned shoves his hands deep in his pockets.

"You didn't have to come," she reminds him. He doesn't need to remind her that he wouldn't have let her go alone – and since it'd been impossible to dissuade her…well, here he was.

It's kind of futile to argue at this point, anyway, so Ned seals his lips and follows Chuck as she makes her way to the kitchen.

"Where do you think he put it?" Chuck wonders aloud, rummaging through a drawer. Ned opens a cupboard by the refrigerator and frowns.

"I don't know…he wasn't very clear, was he?"

Actually, the dearly departed Mr. Vance VanDerHall had barely been lucid, seeing as he possessed half a face at best. What he had managed to express, however, was that he'd once written a letter to his high school sweet-heart, but had never been brave enough to mail it. Now, he hoped that someone could complete the task for him, and send his one and only a post-mortem declaration of love.

As there was no sort of monetary profit to be gained from the venture, Emerson had dismissed the idea immediately. Chuck, on the other hand, had attacked it with gusto, and Ned had just tagged along.

"Well, it's not a very big apartment," Chuck says appraisingly, hands on her hips. "It can't be _that_ hard to find."

An hour and a half passes before Chuck stumbles upon a tiny, white envelope, tucked neatly between the pages of Mr. VanDerHall's Bible. She bounds into the living room, where Ned has taken to checking behind picture frames, waving her discovery triumphantly.

"I found it," she proclaims, a slight blush in her cheeks and a grin tugging at her lips. Ned leans up against the entertainment center, a smile stealing across his own features as she flops down onto Mr. VanDerHall's ragtag sofa.

She spends a minute examining the hasty letters scrawled across the front of the envelope before glancing back up to look at Ned.

"It's really sad, you know," she says, running her finger along the edge of the paper. "I mean, it'd be awful, dying without ever telling the person that you loved how you felt." She pauses, reading over the address once more. "And what about her, she's going to find out that he loved her, but it's too late. He's gone."

Ned's quiet for a very long time, pondering his words before actually speaking them.

"I guess we're lucky then," he says finally, his voice low and solemn.

Chuck nods, her eyes locked on Ned's face. "I guess we are."

They stay that way for a long moment, Ned's fingers twitching in his pockets as he resists the urge to reach out and brush her cheek, or cup her soft chin in his palm and kiss her, slow and tender at first, until the fire that burned in his veins swelled up and consumed them both.

He can't, though, and he doesn't. But even that thought isn't enough to chase the desire away, and it hangs there, heavy in the air between them.

It's a good thing, then, that Mr. VanDerHall kept his pantry well stocked with plastic wrap.

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_Thanks for reading, and please review! Have a great Thanksgiving!_

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	11. Blossom

_Hey there! Sorry it's been a while, but I've had a lot going on. These entries are pretty short, but I've got five of them, so hopefully that's alright. I think I might get around to posting some of my other Pushing Daisies oneshots from LJ in the next few days, too._

**_DISCLAIMER -- Not mine._**

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_#11 – __gardenia_

_Blossom_

They're up on the rooftop again – Chuck's got a little watering can with a spout shaped like a daisy, and Ned's admiring one patch of vibrantly colored flowers.

"What's this one called?" he asks, pointing out a bloom near the front of the batch.

Chuck glances up and smiles. "It's a gardenia," she explains. "It means unspoken love."

A gentle breeze whispers by, kissing Chuck's brunette locks the way Ned wishes he could. He tears his eyes away from her face, but not before she recognizes the longing in his eyes.


	12. Days

_#12 – in a good mood_

_Days_

Days like this are his favorite. It's just him and Chuck, tucked away in the kitchen – she's wearing that same cheeky grin, and rattling off her plans for the evening. She's got rubber gloves pulled up to her elbows, and every now and again she'll reach over a give Ned's hand a gentle squeeze that stops his heart for just a second.

"You seem awfully happy today," she remarks casually as she sorts through a batch of alive-again strawberries. "What're you thinking about?"

"You," he replies instantly – and he knows that he's at the part where he's supposed to sweep her off her feet and plant a passionate kiss on her oh so soft lips – but he can't. This is all he's got.

But some days that's enough. And lucky for him, it's one of those days.


	13. Dance

_#13 – excessive __chain_

_Dance_

Before she died, Chuck couldn't remember the last time she'd danced. In the time since then, she felt like she hardly stopped moving. Every step became a waltz, every turn a twirl. It was this undeniable compulsion to spin and move and just _be_.

She figured it was the dying part that did it to her. Because you never know what you're going to miss most until you almost lose it. It's not until the last breath is chased from your lungs, or until his lips are inches away from yours that you realize _this is it, it's over now._

But she's got this second chance now, and there's no way she's going to waste it. And if she's going to go again, well then, she's pretty sure she'll go out dancing.


	14. From Me To You

_goes__ with 13 – I happened to be listening to this song as I wrote this)_

_#14 – radio-cassette player_

_From Me __To__ You_

Now and again he'll catch her dancing – today she's back in the kitchen, bobbing her head and tapping her foot to the soft tune of the old radio on the countertop. He leans in the doorframe, arms folded across his chest as she sings along, still unaware of his presence.

_"I've got arms that long to hold you, and keep you by my side. I've got lips that long to kiss you, and keep you satisfied…"_

Usually her unpredictable movements make him nervous – it would only take a fraction of a second, one careless misstep for everything to come crashing down around their heads – but right now, he's content to sit back and admire the beauty that's echoed in her every move.


	15. Blueberry

_#15 – perfect blue_

_Blueberry_

"Doesn't it bother you that you can't eat you own pies?" she asks him one day. They're in the kitchen, and she's heartily spooning blueberries into a crust.

"Why would it bother me?" he asks, glancing up quickly before his gaze returns to his work.

"I don't know." She adds another spoonful of blueberries. "It's just, you put so much time and effort into making these pies, and you can't even eat them."

"Other people eat them," he points out. "I enjoy watching them enjoy the pies. It works."

"So it doesn't bother you?" she persists.

"Not really."

"It bothers you that you can't touch me."

It's not a question, and he doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. Although _bothers_isn't really the right word. It doesn't do the feeling justice, not at all. It _pains _him not to be able to touch her, it absolutely _tears _at his soul. He'd give anything, anything at all for one moment, one kiss.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs a moment later, looking down. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's alright," he replies. "I mean, you're right." He takes a deep breath, meeting her eyes. "But this is enough."

"It is?" she asks dubiously.

"Yes," he answers. It's easy enough to tell himself that he's not lying, not really. The hard part is listening.

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